Dimmangali: Speak My Name No More

By Clarence Alfred Diefenbach

DIMMANGALI is set in the early era of white settlement in South-East Queensland, between 1820 and 1842.
It tells the story of Buruda, a proud aboriginal manager of the Undanbi people, custodians of the lands around Caloundra, and his leadership at this time. To these people, the land was a spiritual entity that gave life to all – humans and animals, and plants. The proponents of this philosophy could not help living each day in harmony with the natural rhythms of the earth. The Unani believed the white men to be macaron, spirits who had not taken the proper path of being reborn as children, and some of the surrounding peoples had even befriended a few of them. But as increasing numbers of macaron pillaged their forests and depleted their animal numbers, the macaroni presence became more sinister.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Inspiring Publishers / ASPG
• Release date: Oct 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781922792471

Book preview

Introduction

History in Australia has been told mostly from the viewpoint of the explorers and settlers – the pioneers who opened up this vast continent for civilisation. And, from the point of view of the white settlers, this is undoubtedly a legitimate viewpoint. But it is important to remember that these histories stem from the philosophical premise that land should be commercially productive. If a country is not producing wealth, then it should be made to do so – and so on. In short, the histories have been told from an extremely materialistic point of view.

But there is a view of Australian history that does not stem from such a philosophical standpoint. It belongs to the indigenous people who have been here since the dream-time – or, as this story puts it, the before-time. To these people, the land was not a cow to be milked of its goodness, but rather a spiritual entity that gave life to all – humans and animals and plants. Not only this, but the mighty beings of the time of creation had set down laws that must be obeyed at all times. And to break these laws could bring disaster as the spirits of the land took revenge.

The proponents of this philosophy could not help living each day in harmony with the natural rhythms of the earth. They could not help trying to ensure that the earth remained productive – but their definition of productivity was linked very much to the idea of spirituality. For if the spirits of the land were in tune with people and animals and plants, then it followed as a matter of course that all was right with the world.

Such people could not help being religious. Their whole lives depended on their being in tune with the spirits that gave the land life.

Of course, they were human, and therefore were bound to fail in their efforts. And just as it is not reasonable to expect every materialistic person to be a millionaire, it is also unreasonable to expect that people who approached life from a spiritual standpoint were always obedient to the laws of the spirits. Above all, they were human.

They were highly civilised. Their civilisation might have been different from that of such places as England, but it was nevertheless as sophisticated. Their beliefs regarding the nature of illness and medicine might have been different from those we espouse today, but they were as legitimate.

And they were a proud people. They proclaimed their pride and freedom even in the way they walked. Mrs. Archer once drew the attention of her sons to a naked Aborigine who was walking past their house at Durundur, remarking that they would never see an Englishman hold himself with such pride!

The story told here is a work of fiction, woven round certain historical facts. These facts have been taken mainly from white accounts of the period, but the attempt has been made to present them from the viewpoint of those who were already here when the first white explorers arrived. What is history like when viewed through their eyes? What would they have thought as they saw the Endeavour sailing past Fraser Island? How would they have reacted when they saw the first white people on Bribie Island? How would they have attempted to come to grips with the earth-shattering events as these strange uncivilised beings arrived and destroyed life as they had known it since the beginning of time? What would they do as venereal disease and smallpox decimated their populations? What were their reactions to the massacres, the desecrations of their cemeteries and their sacred places?

Contrary to the opinion of many, there was much trade and social intercourse between the different Aboriginal nations. So Buruda, a manngur of the Undanbi, a nation of the area round Caloundra, knows what is going on in Redcliffe, Brisbane, Ipswich and Stradbroke Island. And throughout the story, it is the opinion of Buruda that moves our story along. For Buruda is not only a wise man, but also a mighty hunter and fighter, respected among the nations of south-east Queensland. He it is who first realises that these interlopers are not spirits of their dead returned to live with their old brothers and sisters. He it is who advocates driving these makaron, these evil spirits, out of the sacred land of the nations.

There is no doubt that the Aborigines of South-East Queensland did all in their power to repel the invaders. Some history books tell us that Lieutenant Miller moved the first settlement from Red Cliff Point to Brisbane because of mosquito trouble. What those books don’t tell us is that these mosquitoes carried spears, boomerangs and clubs! The Ningi were not an easy target for the settlers.

It is the aim of this book to give people – both black and white – enjoyment. After all, that is what a novel should do, for people read to that end. And authors are like actors. They have no reason to exist if they are boring. After reading, the reader should be able to put a book down with a sense of satisfaction at having found something that was diverting.

But there are two other aims it is hoped the book will achieve.

The first is that Aboriginal readers will feel that the story has been told satisfactorily from their point of view. For if that occurs, there is no doubt that they will know that the dignity and integrity of their race have been affirmed, that an approach has been taken that will encourage their children to view their ancestors in a truly positive light. Their children may then learn to walk as proudly as the man pointed out to her children by Mrs. Archer of Durundur.

And the second is that white Australians will also see the original Australians as a people who have as legitimate a place in the scheme of things as whites. They will hopefully also realise that Australian history is full of lamentable events that need to be addressed if true reconciliation between black and white is ever to take place.

Chapter 1

1820: Memories of Flinders in the Norfolk in 1799 on Bribie Island, his brother Samuel, and the Sydney Aborigine Bongaree, who accompanied Flinders.

Buruda swung easily along and, as always, the familiarity of the pattern of the bush engendered a deep feeling of peace within him, a sense that all was as it should be and that it would remain so, as of course it must, because the unalterable laws of the Before-Time had to be obeyed. The warbling of kurumbul the magpie, the whispering of buran the wind through the kangaroo grass, the scent of the dibing blossoms in which the small black bees were at work, the whistling of wuruma the sea-eagle as he rose from feeding his young in his nest in a tall dead tree – all these were evidence of a oneness of spirit, a feeling that everything fitted perfectly into the land on which he left his tracks.

He could almost feel the throbbing heartbeat of the earth beneath his feet. His own heart swelled, a chant rising unbidden to his lips, and he sang quietly of the beauty of the spirit-land from which he and all beings in this Undanbi country had sprung.

Almost unconsciously he noted a number of kangaroo tracks on the ground, and recognised instantly that they were a family he knew well. A small new track among the more familiar ones caught his eye, and he saw that a new joey had made its appearance, so there were now the original two twos and another one in the little band. He took a little time to commit to memory some of the distinctive features of the small track, for, while the joey would grow and change, there were some things about the track that would remain with it while it lived. For Buruda knew that, while the earth had uncountable ways of showing the passage of creatures across its surface, to each creature it allotted a distinct and separate mark, so that all who knew the secret were able to read the story of animal movements over the land, even though these movements might have occurred many days before.

Once more he settled into the distance-eating stride that would bring him to the main camp of his people in plenty of time for the evening meal. Nor was he hampered by the paraphernalia he carried, though he was carrying more weapons than he would if he had been simply going on a hunting expedition. His fighting boomerang – the non-returning kind – hung suspended from his hair-belt. As a signal to the Nalbo, from whose land he was returning, he had painted it white as a sign of peace before leaving on his journey almost a moon ago. In his left hand he carried three heavy spears of ironbark, their sharp points blackened and hardened over the fire. In a possum-fur rug suspended from his shoulders reposed his heavy studded club which had often stood him in good stead in fights at close quarters. Close to it was the shield of soft wood which was used to parry blows from an opponent’s club and which also served as a pillow at night. Also in the rug was the sharp-pointed throwing-club with which he could easily split an opponent’s shield, and which he could throw with equal dexterity using either hand. And the narrow hardwood shield used to ward off spear and throwing club added its weight to the other weapons in the rug.

His knife of razor-sharp quartz attached to its handle by ironwood gum lay snugly in the dhilla which, suspended from his neck, nestled under his left arm. The knife was the slashing weapon used at the end of a fight, when opponents battled it out holding each other close with one arm, all other weapons having been discarded.

It did not strike him as incongruous that he was so heavily armed, even though he had been on a peaceful mission. No bu-ul in his right mind would ever travel out of his own country with less.

He smiled to himself as he felt the weight of the fur rug and recalled how hard he’d had to bargain for it. Normally a possum-fur rug could be got from the Nalbo people for a little white clay which could be found quite easily among the soft black rock on the shore opposite the northern end of Yarun, and he had therefore taken plenty with him. But for this rug he’d had to add some eagle feathers and two strings of shell beads before its owner would part with it. Not that he really blamed old Yerrawun, who had been loath to seal the bargain. It was one of the finest rugs he had ever seen, and the seams where she had sewn the skins together with kangaroo sinews were almost invisible.

His own possum rug he had left hanging up back at the home camp near the creek, and he knew it would still be in the same place when he reached there this afternoon. Nor was he worried about the other goods which he had left behind him. His two mula, the fishing nets so carefully worked so that no shame would attach to him if anyone cared to scrutinise them ever so carefully, would be exactly as he had left them. So would his beautifully-ground stone axe with which he could cut out possums from the hollows of the trees where they made their homes, or the hives of the little black bees that made such mouth-watering honey.

The rug on his shoulders was destined for Nerida’s parents.

Nerida! Gogindi! He felt a quickening in his loins at the thought of her. She had been his promised wife for many summers. And he’d helped grow her up in the best human tradition, giving her father Wimbur, his mother’s brother, the best fish from his catch and supplying him always with the choicest cut from any animal which he had himself killed.

And always Nerida had grown more beautiful. She had been ripe for marriage now for three whole summers, and Buruda had found it hard to curb his impatience. Three summers ago her mother Koppakkin had wound the hair and spider-web round the little finger of Nerida’s left hand to ensure that the top two joints would drop off and mark her for all time as one of the coastal women.

Yes, it had been difficult to wait when there was no physical bar to his taking her.

The reason for waiting rested with old Gibberol. Indeed, Nerida’s parents had given all sorts of reasons themselves, but somehow they didn’t always ring true. No, it was Gibberol who had been working to thwart him.

Almost from the time when Bulangga, his father’s brother and therefore one whom he also called father, had begun to teach him to throw a spear, Gibberol had singled out Buruda as a boy who would stand out from the rest of the group, and this despite a hot temper which seemed to land the boy in more fights than would normally be expected. And so it had happened. It was Buruda who had become the greatest hunter of his age cohort. He it was who had excelled as a kivar, and by the time of the full dhur ceremony he had stood head and shoulders above all – even his teacher Bulangga. Nobody could make a straighter spear or throw it more accurately. He could hurl the boomerang and throwing club with deadly effect from either hand. And no man could use the light or heavy shields as skilfully as he.

So Gibberol had urged him to continue his education and learn more secrets even than had been unfolded to him since his kivar days. Gibberol himself had taken him in hand to teach him the art of healing and how to divine what spirits were to blame for certain conditions. It was Gibberol who had at last taken him to the forbidden place of still waters to discover whether or not the spirits would cause a rippling on the face of the still lagoon. And what elation Buruda had felt when, after only a very short time, he had seen the slightest movement on the surface, as the spirit had come to crown all the effort that had gone into his preparation. The signs had been so favourable that it had come as no surprise to Buruda when he had discovered the magic kundir stone left in the bottom of the pool by Dhakkin the rainbow. This was to be his personal healing-stone, and he always carried it on its string, carefully stowed in the dhilla hung round his neck.

By now Buruda was respected as a fully-fledged doctor – a manngur as powerful almost as Gibberol himself. And the discovery at the pool that he had his own special spirit to aid him in his work of healing had opened up a new era of learning for him. Gibberol had directed that he should travel to other places in order to serve a short apprenticeship with other manngur.

Two moons ago he had gone to the Dhundubari people to learn from old Bomarigo. Here he had also talked long with Nganku, another young doctor of the Dhundubari, and he had spent a whole moon with the two of them, fascinated by the old manngur who had such intimate knowledge of the spirit-land and the abode of the dead.

Of course, Buruda had known quite a lot about the spirit-world before he had visited Bomarigo. Indeed, even children were expected to know a lot about spirits from a very early age.

He had known, for example, that people’s spirits sometimes returned after death to live in another guise with those still alive, without bothering to go through the process of rebirth through a woman’s womb. Whenever the Dhundubari had met with the Undanbi at festivals, one of the dances often performed dealt with the visit many summers ago of a spirit canoe, and Buruda had always been intrigued by the fact that the Dhundubari had been the nation chosen by the spirits for this visitation, and that Bomarigo himself had been witness to the event.

But on this visit to Bomarigo, the old man had told him more about the visit than he had ever heard before.

I was young then, Bomarigo had said. They came in a huge canoe, and this canoe of theirs carried some white stuff on top that appeared as if it was woven from the bark of the dibing tree. This stuff was even whiter than the skin of the spirits. Their skin – as much of it as could be seen – was pale, like the flesh of the dead that has just been roasted. Only one of them was a proper black colour, and I would say he must have been only lately dead and had not been prepared properly for his journey to the spirit-land. All of them were covered up in strange wrappings that resembled the bark of no tree in which we wrap the bones of the dead, so it appears that in the spirit-land they exchange our bark for some other. Some of these wrappings were brightly coloured. Not one of them could speak the language of the living – not Gubbi, not Wakka, not Dhandai, not Yugara, not Yugum. Instead, they jabbered away in their spirit tongue, seeming anxious that we should understand them.

The old man paused, and Buruda had asked if others still alive had seen them.

Yes, Nganku had hastened to assure him, there are lots of people alive who saw this. Yewoo was one, and my own father was there with Bomarigo when they met the spirits. I was only a toddler, and saw this meeting from the safety of the bush. But my own Dimmangali father was there.

Buruda knew that Nganku was referring to Yelyelbah, though of course he didn’t say the name of his friend’s dead father.

Bomarigo’s eyes had appeared as if they were looking at some distant point in time. Yes, he had continued, they were strange, these spirits. They didn’t seem evil, and yet they did. He had paused once again, and it was obvious to the two listeners that he was turning the contradictions over in his mind, as he had so many times before. They had magic clubs that made a noise like Mumba the thunder when lightning strikes a nearby tree. And after the thunder, there was hurt. I was only a young manngur then, and I later sucked a stone out of one man’s shoulder. And lots of strange things happened. Another of my friends fell down and broke his arm! He had never even looked like doing anything of the like before! Only a very clumsy fighting man would break his arm when he fell on the sand! He said it was as if the magic had thumped into his arm from behind as he was running away!

The old man had stood up and walked about, remembering the fear and anger that had followed the thunder and the hurt. Once they had gained the shelter of the forest, how the fighting men had fumed, threatening revenge on these wicked spirits!

Yet no-one knew how! he had muttered sadly. How do you fight the wind and the eternal?

After a short silence, Bomarigo had continued.

Two days after the events he had just related the Ningi at Kuturrumba had found one of their nets missing. But in the place of the net the spirits had left a most marvellous axe of incredible design. The hard stone of which it was made had a hole through which the handle fitted so snugly that it was of unbelievable strength. And the stone itself was of a type never before seen on this earth. It had been ground down to an incredible sharpness, and the edge of it shone like the sun. It was so sharp and hard that it made light work of the hardest task of cutting possums out of their hiding places in the hollow branches, or of getting the sweet honey from the hives of the small black bees.

Yes, Bomarigo had continued, they were kind – and yet not kind.

Once again he had paused, and Buruda had asked, Do the Ningi still have this axe?

The old man had shaken his head. I have not seen it for many summers. I think I heard from one of the Ningi that it was traded for a bride of the Yugumbir. But whether this is true or not, I do not know.

They went into Nalbo land, too, Bomarigo had continued. Durbai told me that they climbed Beerburrum, but he could never for the life of him work out the reason for this. After all, there was no special food there. And they walked to the bottom of Tibrogargan. Luckily they did not try to climb Beerwah, or they would have been blinded.

Buruda had nodded vehemently. All knew of the dangers of trying to climb the forbidden peak.

There were other strange things they did on Ningi land, the old man had gone on. They took one of their special axes and chopped down a pine tree and it fell with a great crash. The people around were more afraid than ever when they saw this. Never had they seen a tree chopped down so easily and quickly.

Again there had been a pause while the story-teller had collected his thoughts. Then he had half muttered, as if to himself, Besides, it made no sense to the people that a good tree should be chopped down for no apparent reason.

The old man then had looked around him uncomfortably for a short time, his whole demeanour signifying that he himself found it hard to communicate the next bit of information, so outlandish it appeared to be. Then he had collected himself with a shudder, adding softly, The thing that shocked the Ningi about this wanton act was that the visitors at no time tried to explain to the spirit of the tree why they needed to chop it down! At times these spirits seemed to have no consideration at all – neither for the people they were visiting nor for the spirits of the land upon which they trod!

Buruda himself had shuddered at the very thought. Surely Bomarigo or the Ningi must have made a mistake! Surely not even returned spirits would act in this fashion! It was unthinkable that anybody would kill a tree without explaining the reason to its spirit!

Then, closing his eyes to regain the thread of his narrative, the old man had gone on. For some time we wondered how to persuade these spirits to return to the spirit-land. He pointed to the south. They went away down there for a few days and we thought they had gone. But, no – they came back. They pulled a canoe up on the sand at Taranggir, and we watched them from the safety of the trees. Then we saw them visit Undanbi land, and they came back from there. We wondered and wondered how to get them to go. It was a puzzle, I can tell you. I am sure you will understand that we were very worried about the dangers of having these spirits around.

The two young manngur had nodded vigorously. They understood only too well the dangers of too close contact with spirits. Every human being was aware of these dangers.

We were hampered somewhat by our inability to connect these spirits with any of our lately dead, Bomarigo had explained. But none of our people recognised any of the spirits at all. If we had been able to make such a connection, it is possible that we would have been able to work out where we had gone wrong in the burial ceremonies that had allowed the spirits to return like this, and we might have been able to perform the ceremonies more properly and so get rid of them. But we could think of nothing. At last I composed a song – a spell – that I thought might work, and I taught it to the other men. He had pointed at Nganku. Your father was one of the men I taught the song to. We bided out time until the chief spirits came ashore again near Taranggir, but before we could begin the song, a strange thing happened.

Once again a puzzled look had come across the face of the old manngur, and he had shaken his head. The spirit who had not been dead long – the black one – gave us some spears. He also presented us with a curious notched stick into which he fitted a spear. The spear went a long way – much further than ours. Later, after they had all gone, we all tried to see if the stick made our own spears go further, but it was an awkward contraption and of no real use to us. Apparently spirits possess some kind of magic that makes such a stick work. We ended up giving it to the women to use as a fire-stick.

By this time the old man had been beginning to show signs that he was growing weary with remembering.

But you will want to know about the chant, he had apologised. Gogindi! There was so much to tell, it was easy to leave things out! "We had practised it carefully. But the spirits weren’t going to let us begin it too easily. They first performed a curious dance, which did not seem to us to contain any artistry or grace at all, and which was quite boring. But they finished at last, and at my signal each one of us attached himself to a single spirit, as we had planned earlier. We placed our mouths very close to their ears in order to ensure that they would have no difficulty hearing us, and we sang:

"The land you left is beautiful.

It is the spirit-land where all must go.

Go, my friends, go.

Return whence you came.

Take your canoes and go.

If you are lonely, there are spirit friends for you in that place,

And soon even we will join you.

Go, my friends, go.

Perhaps DiraiYirki, the morning star, is your home.

Perhaps it is in the rocks and trees of Undanbi land,

Or even on our beautiful Yarun.

But go, my friends, go.

Soon we will join you."

Bomarigo had sat staring into space for a long time after that, and neither of the young manngur had interrupted his reverie, content to sit there and let the import of his song sink in. There might come a time when they, too, would be called on to compose such a magic chant, and grant that Birral might send down the appropriate ideas from the stars!

The old man had at last stood up. They went. I don’t know whether it was the song, but they went. I think it might have been the song. We were pleased they had gone, and yet not pleased.

The visit of the spirits had been fraught with difficulties from beginning to end.

In the days following, Buruda had learned still more about the spirit visitors. But he had blanched when Bomarigo had made as if to tell him their names.

Dimmangali! he had protested weakly.

Yes, Dimmangali! the old man had agreed. Sacred to the dead! Yet I do not believe that it applies to the spirit visitors. Who can tell about such beings? Are they dead? Are they reborn? Just where do they fit into the scheme of things? In any case, not long after they had gone a number of children saw a small cloud above the sea and thought they were returning in their big canoe, and yelled their names at the tops of their voices to alert us to the fact. We were worried for a long time after we saw it was only a cloud, for the children had put us all in danger by yelling the names. Or so we thought. But nothing happened. In fact, that was one of the best fish seasons we had ever had. So I do not believe that it is unlawful to mention their names. In any case, they would be spirit names, and would bear no resemblance to the names they had while living with men.

Buruda had been silenced. He could see that there were many mysteries still to be unravelled, and a whole lifetime might not be enough to do so, if Bomarigo’s experience was anything to go by.

I know the names of the chief two of the male spirits, Bomarigo had told him. They were Midherplinda and Damwel. The name of the spirit who was still black was Bongari.

Yes, it would take a lifetime of thinking to digest the mysteries Bomarigo had unfolded to him.

After his return from Yarun, Gibberol had one morning brought two sticks to Buruda as he had sat outside the house of the bachelors mending a mula which had suffered from too heavy a catch of fish. Each of Gibberol’s sticks had a large number of notches cut in it.

Your education is all but complete, Gibberol had told him. Already you have surpassed me. It is also high time that you and Nerida became husband and wife. It is not good in a group for a young woman of Nerida’s beauty to be long promised but unwed.

Buruda had sputtered, the blood rushing to his face. He had already waited three summers longer than he had wanted to, and only the kindness of some of his Bunda visitors from other nations in lending him their wives on occasion had stopped him from tackling Gibberol before this. But he had stopped short of saying what was in his mind. In the first place, Gibberol was an old man and his mentor, and thus worthy of deep respect. And again, Buruda had early learned that he himself had a temper that had to be kept under control. Too often in the past it had landed him in trouble.

Gibberol had waited until Buruda’s face had assumed its normal hue. Then – I know that it is I who have kept you apart till now, but that is about to end. I only ask that you first spend as many days as there are notches on this stick with Durbai of the Nalbo. He may have something further to teach you.

Buruda had relaxed. He would certainly like to visit the Nalbo manngur, particularly since Durbai was Nerida’s maternal grandfather. I will do it, old man, he had agreed.

Gibberol had nodded approvingly, and had handed one of the sticks to Buruda. Then you will from today start cutting across the notches on this stick. The other one I will give to Wimbur. He will expect you home the day the last notch is crossed.

So it had been. Today Buruda had crossed the last notch on his stick.

And the time with Durbai had passed interestingly enough. Not that he felt he had learned as much as he had from Bomarigo. But he had to acknowledge that Durbai was renowned throughout the whole of the Gubbi-speaking area, even as far north as K’gari, the big sandy island, as a foremost practitioner of divination. And during his time with the Nalbo, Buruda had witnessed for himself the great man in action. But Durbai had not been as helpful as Bomarigo in his explanations, and Buruda had been left with many unanswered questions.

Still, there was no doubt that Durbai knew what he was about. During Buruda’s visit a man had suddenly fallen seriously ill, and no sucking of his breast had helped in any way. The kundir stone had also been of no avail. Just when Buruda had thought the old manngur must surely be defeated, Durbai had suddenly confronted the man’s wife and accused her of stepping over her husband’s shield when she had been placing the kangaroo sleeping-skin on the floor of the hut the night before he became ill.

Great consternation had ensued within the Nalbo camp. For a person to step over any possession of another was to ensure beyond a shadow of a doubt that an accident of some kind would befall that person. To step over a fighting man’s shield was tantamount to removing the protection of that shield, and could easily result in his death.

This time the woman had been lucky. The sick man’s kin had been content with beating her senseless. And it had not been long before the man had begun to get better, proving beyond any doubt that the culprit had been found.

Durbai had later explained to a puzzled Buruda that there were many signs that could point to the guilty person in these circumstances. Just as a man could tell what animal had made a particular track and how long ago it had passed, so it was with divination. Each person had a particular way of acting, and no two people were ever the same. When something happened that required divination, you had only to look at the way people were acting, Any change from the normal might easily point to the cause of any event, since those guilty tended to give themselves away by trying to change their particular way of behaving. The successful manngur, therefore, needed to know in great detail just what was usual in all people within the group – and even in people outside it.

And the unusual often points the mind to the usual, Durbai had explained with a smile, knowing full well that Buruda would not understand. But that was Durbai’s way. He liked to talk in conundrums before he explained.

Take the case of the woman stepping over the shield, he had gone on. Her behaviour was different from what I expected. Just what was different about it is hard to explain, but I knew it was different because I know my people so well. Then I remembered that she has always been careless in the way she sets the kangaroo skin down for sleeping, and it was this usual behaviour that cleared up the problem.

So as he strode onward toward the camp at the mouth of the creek flowing into Kaerwagum, Buruda reflected that his time with Durbai had been well spent. From now on he would be much more alert to human behaviour than he had been in the past. And if he performed this task well, he must become a more proficient manngur. When he had first become the possessor of a kundir stone he had felt pride in a task accomplished. Now he realised it had only just begun, and he felt excitement at the prospect of a lifetime delving into the deeper mysteries regarding the spirits of people and animals, and of the land from which all sprang.

Notes on Chapter 1

Most of the material in this chapter is taken from Steele’s The Explorers of the Moreton Bay District 1770-1830. Thus Bomarigo, Yelyelbah and Yewoo are real historical characters who were there when Flinders visited the area in the Norfolk in 1799.

The pronunciation of Mister Flinders and his brother Samuel is also as Flinders noted it. Nor could it have been otherwise, considering the fact that Aboriginal languages have neither the s nor the f sound.

The account of what Flinders and his crew did is set down as one could expect an old man like Bomarigo to remember after the lapse of some twenty odd years. After all, it would be unreasonable to expect there to be no anomalies when compared with Flinders’ interpretation of events when all history was transmitted orally. Besides, the reader must always bear in mind that the story is told from the perspective of a man whose perception of the universe differed greatly from that of the more materially-oriented European.

Bongaree, the Aborigine from Port Jackson who accompanied Flinders, did in fact show the locals how to use a woomera and presented them with one. The fact that his present was nowhere to be seen by the time of the next visit of the white man gives a pretty good indication of what the locals thought of its usefulness. Their method of spear-throwing was obviously sufficient for their needs, and the innovation must have been considered quite superfluous.

It was difficult to understand the incident (described by Flinders) of the singling out of individual sailors by the Dhundubari men who sang a song straight into the ear of the individual each had attached himself to. The explanation given for this event seems to be the only one that would fit neatly with Aboriginal beliefs and customs.

For ease of interpretation by the reader, the present spelling for individual peaks in the Glasshouse Mountains has been used. It is of interest also to note that Aborigines who were still in the region when Andrew Petrie later climbed Beerwah were in no way surprised when he became blind from cataracts in his later years. Aborigines knew that people who dared to climb this sacred peak would go blind!

Dhilla = Bag(s). Our word dilly is derived from this Gubbi word. (Note that in the Gubbi language the singular and plural were always the same.) The bags were made of hair, grass, or reeds, and many of them were beautifully patterned.

Dibing = Mosquito(es). (They also called tea-trees dibing because of the prevalence of these pests in ti-tree areas.)

Manngur needs perhaps a more detailed explanation. The word could be translated as Doctor, and at times that word will be used. Gaiarbau (Willie Mackenzie) of the Dungidau people, whom the author once had the pleasure of meeting, said that the Gubbi word manngur meant He’s got something! Thus the manngur was looked upon as a person who had far more knowledge than the ordinary man.

If one wanted to draw parallels between the Gubbi education system and the present-day white system, it would be legitimate to equate the teaching of the children up till the age of puberty as primary education. The boys then went through the kivar-yangga, and became kivar or young men. The time of learning up to the next stage (the dhur or bu-ul) could be equated to a high-school education. The man who became a fully-fledged warrior (bu-ul or dhan) at this last initiation ceremony could be thought of as having matriculated. It would be wrong to assume that a man’s education stopped here, however. He could eventually become a wise enough man to be considered an elder. The elder could be thought of as having a degree.

The manngur was the Ph.D. of Gubbi society.

Gubbi, Wakka, Yugar(a), Yugum, Dhandai were all languages one would expect the Undanbi to come in contact with. All these words mean no, nothing, nowhere in the particular area where they were used. All languages used the same word for yes – yau or yau-ai. Gubbi was spoken from the southern end of Bribie Island (Yarun), the home of the Dhundubari, to the northern end of Fraser Island (K’gari). The Undanbi spoke Gubbi. The people to the west spoke Wakka. Yugar(a) was the language of the Turrbal who lived in the Brisbane and Caboolture River areas. Yugum was the language of the Yugumbir in the Logan and Albert River districts. The Dhandai language was spoken by the people of Cleveland and Stradbroke Island.

The name Kaerwagum has been used for Pumicestone Passage. This name was used for its southern part, and it has been used here for the whole length of the passage, though it is not certain this was so.

Birral means literally Up in the sky, and is the name given by the Gubbi people to the supreme God. It undoubtedly has connections to their name for Beerwah, the highest of the Glasshouse Mts.

Dimmangali was the name given to all the dead. It was believed that to mention the name of a dead person would expose people to all sorts of harm from the spirit of that dead person.

Chapter 2

1820: Men of the Bunda skin dance the Fraser Island dance, commemorating the passing of Indian Head (Kow-Woi) by Cook in the year 1770.

The afternoon was wearing on by the time he emerged from the unmarked bush onto a well-worn track leading to the creek. His stride lengthened, and at the same time his quick ear caught a faint tapping sound that grew louder as the track approached a gap in the dense tangle of mangroves fringing the creek. Buruda’s mouth watered as he thought of the succulent oysters that often clung to the finger roots of these trees. He was beginning to feel hungry, as he had not eaten all day. Besides, the